As I woke the other day
the sky broke. Big, grey
splotches on concrete.
Each one a cocktail thrown by an ex-lover in defeat.
Dressing, dreading
resigned to a day of
unabashed antagonists,
washing, waking
this disturbing state
insistently persists.
I attempted to give the half squint that hair leaving the
house demands
but could barely see the mirror for Kirby grips and
hair-bands.
They had spilt off the shelf and onto the floor;
some in the bin, some in the drawer
this atoll of accessories, point of origin undisclosed
was girt by the
lagoon of lost socks and outgrown favourite clothes.
Confused, I clamour for caffeine.
Stumbling through the hallway,
bare soles bruising on abandoned ephemera
as pen lids, lip balm and bouncy balls roll away
care-slow moving like a long lost Lepidoptera.
Steaming kettle further blurring sleep clouded
eyes I turn and reach wrist deep into a tower
of teaspoons.
Withdraw.
To hullabaloo calamitous, I stir.
I slurp.
I stare,
trying to work out where I am.
Such stifling clutter!
It looks like a nutter
lives here, hoarding
all things
carelessly tossed aside.
This realization drove an elbow into my gut.
I checked the doors and windows.
Sealed shut.
Jellied legs delivered me to my cobalt velvet chair,
I sipped my tea most somberly, reflecting on my despair.
I finished, then straight-backed rinsed the cup,
head up high, jaw a-jut
then set about with mop and duster
until all of the items regained their lustre.
Gave each a home, it’s proper place,
put away pairs of briefs by the case
and learned to live through windows.
On tiptoes from upstairs
I can see a sliver of ocean.
I’ve chosen to make the best of it.
It’s orderly now. And quiet.
Some people would kill for this solitude.
I stoically abide it.
As for all the teaspoons, I’ve made myself a crown.
I accept I’m lost, for this is where I’m found
